Wife's Charity Rugby Strip and Swallow

The sun sat high over the charity pitch, and Beatrice felt the blouse stick lightly to her spine. She was twenty-eight, dressed the way she had promised: a professional office lady, nothing soft about the costume except the woman inside it. Crisp white cotton, buttons marching to her throat. A tight pencil skirt. Sheer stockings with a dark seam. Heels that made her calves ache where they sank into the grass. Beside her stood Reid, her husband, thirty, his hand warm at the small of her back as if the crowd might pull her forward.

"Still sure?" he asked.

"I said yes," she answered. "One button for every point. I want the money high, and I want them watching me do it."

She had agreed at their kitchen table that morning, sober and clear, looking him in the eye. The club's charity fund needed a spectacle. She had offered herself as one. The wanting had started there, a private throb she had not tried to hide from him.

Conrad, twenty-nine, the home side's fly-half, trotted over with his mouthguard hanging from his fingers. "Office lady reporting for duty," he said, and the players behind him laughed, warm and filthy and fond. "We'll put points on the board, Beatrice. You just keep those pretty hands honest."

"I will," she said. Her pulse kicked hard enough that she felt it in her throat.

The stands were packed with adults, sponsors in their forties, neighbors, old teammates with gray in their beards, and every face had already turned toward the sideline. A volunteer rattled a donation bucket. The announcer boomed the rule again, one button for every home point, and the cheer that answered it rolled over her skin like a palm. She smoothed the skirt. She tasted lipstick. She waited for the first score the way she waited for a door she had chosen to open.

Reid's thumb stroked once over the cotton at her waist. "They can look," he murmured. "They don't get more than the score earns."

"Until the score earns more," she said, and the whistle split the afternoon in half.

The first try came inside four minutes. Five points slammed onto the board, the crowd roared, and Beatrice's fingers rose to her collar. The top button slipped free. Cool air touched the hollow of her throat. Buckets clinked along the rail. Someone whistled, low and delighted, and heat flashed across her chest.

A conversion added two. She undid the next button, then the one beneath it, slow enough that the lace of her bra began to show. Her heart hammered. Humiliation and pride braided so tightly she could not pull them apart. Reid stood at her shoulder, breathing hard, eyes on her hands and then her face, checking, hungry, proud.

The match turned into a rout. Penalties stacked. A second try, a third. The scoreboard climbed past anything printed in the program, eighteen, then twenty-six, then thirty-four. Cuff buttons. The last of the placket. The blouse hung open, and the lacy bra did nothing to hide how tight her nipples had gone. She shrugged the cotton off and let it fall into Reid's hands. The roar doubled.

"Skirt," Conrad yelled from the field, laughing, thrilled for the fund and for the sight of her. "We're nowhere near done."

Another try. She found the zipper and worked it down while her face burned. The pencil skirt peeled from her hips. Stockings, garter belt, cream panties, the crowd saw all of it, and the sound they made went straight between her legs. She stepped free in her heels and stood straighter than she felt, chin up, wet already, proud of the number climbing behind the buckets.

The points refused to stop. A runaway winger. A charged-down kick raced the length of the field. Forty-one. Forty-eight. She unclipped the garters and rolled the stockings down, leaving them torn and sagging at her calves because she would not take the heels off. The bra clasp fought her. She won. Her breasts spilled into the sunlight, nipples drawn tight, and the stands made a noise like a wave breaking.

Panties last. She pushed them down and stepped free, naked except for the ruined stockings and the heels. The breeze hit her wet pussy and felt indecent. Pride flared at the growing donation total and at her own nakedness, and under it a hot, humiliated ache made her thighs press and fail to close.

The scoreboard ticked again. Reid met her eyes. She nodded, throat dry, cunt throbbing. They had planned this too, clear-headed, when they saw the match might run away: every extra point beyond the clothes, she would take a home player in her mouth on the grass and swallow what he gave her. She wanted that. She wanted it now.

She dropped to her knees.

On her knees in the grass, naked except for her heels and the torn stockings, Beatrice opened her mouth for the first man the extra points delivered.

Reid stepped in, thirty, her husband, already hard from the sight of her. He freed himself, thick and flushed, and cupped her head without forcing. "You want this."

"I want it," she said, and took him in.

She sucked him wet and noisy, lips stretched, tongue on the salty underside, the whole sideline watching spit shine on her chin. Exhibitionist heat roared through her. She felt gorgeous, filthy, exactly where she had asked to be. His hips jerked. The first load hit her tongue thick and salty, pulse after pulse. She swallowed, and a rush of submissive heat flooded her chest. She swallowed again, chasing the salt, and opened her mouth so the nearest spectators could see she had taken every drop.

The salt lingered like a claim. Her clit throbbed in the open air. She had never felt so owned and so proud at once, her husband's cum warm in her belly, the buckets rattling for her.

"One," Reid said, hoarse.

Conrad was already there, twenty-nine, sweaty, grinning. "Extra point's mine if you'll have it."

"Give it to me."

He was heavier than Reid, broader, salt and grass on his skin. She worked him sloppy and eager, spit dripping to her breasts. He groaned and came in a heavier, bitter flood that coated her tongue and kept coming. She swallowed and swallowed, felt it slide warm into her belly, and the bitterness sat thicker than Reid's salt. Her stomach gave a small surprised fullness. She gulped the last, gasped, proud of the money that point had bought and dazed by how much of him she carried.

Fullness surprised her more than the bitterness. She pressed a hand under her navel and felt the new weight, obscene and delicious. She wanted the next point and feared it. She opened her mouth anyway.

"Two," she said.

Griffin, twenty-seven, sunburned across the nose, checked her face. "Still yes?"

"Still yes. Don't make me wait."

She sucked him hungrily, jaw starting to ache, throat opening while the eyes on her lit her up all over again. Her pussy clenched, dripping onto the grass. The third load was hot and sticky, clinging to her palate, sweeter than Conrad's and just as relentless. She swallowed it in two difficult gulps and felt the heat join the rest. A string escaped her lip. She caught it and took it down, shaking, dizzy with the thrill of doing something so private in the open air.

Humiliated arousal flooded her so hard her thighs shook. She was on her knees at a charity rugby match, swallowing a third man's cum where everyone could see, and the shame only made her wetter. Pride rode beside it. The chalkboard jumped again.

"Three," she whispered.

Nolan, thirty-two, stroked her cheek. "Tap my leg if it's too much."

"Not yet," she said, and opened.

The fourth load arrived thick and slow, salty-hot, filling her mouth until her cheeks bulged. She swallowed, gagged once, recovered because she had promised and the crowd was watching, and forced the rest down. Her eyes streamed. Cum and spit shone on her chest. Her stomach sat heavier, a visible softness under her ribs. She coughed, swallowed, and stayed kneeling, breathing hard.

Discomfort edged in beside the thrill. Her jaw ached. Her throat clicked when she swallowed. The fourth load sat heavy, and for the first time the exhibition felt like too much body and not enough room. She stayed anyway, because she had said she would, and because part of her still glowed under all those eyes.

"Four," Nolan said. "You're incredible."

"One more in my mouth," she said. "I want the five. After that I know I can't."

Everett, twenty-six, knelt so she would not have to crane her neck. "Say no and the drinking stops."

"One more. I can feel the line."

She took him deep, eager through the ache, gagging, pulling off to breathe, going back because the point was not paid until she finished and because she still loved every eye on her open throat. He cursed and came. The fifth load was hot, sticky, and felt endless. It hit the back of her throat. She swallowed, then another spurt, then another, and her stomach rolled hard. She gagged, forced two more swallows, and felt the last settle like a weight she could not shift. Dizzy. Overfull. Throat burning. Being watched still thrilled her, but discomfort had won. She retched dry, palm pressed to a belly that looked swollen, five loads warm and heavy, spit cooling on her breasts.

"I can't swallow any more," she said, wrecked and proud. "I physically can't. Don't make me drink another."

The scoreboard still glowed with unpaid points. Her mouth tasted of all five of them, salt and bitter and sticky heat, and her stomach ached with the fullness.

Reid crouched beside her. "We stop if you stop."

"I'm not stopping the points," Beatrice said. She looked at the players still waiting, men in their twenties and thirties, hard, asking with their eyes. "I agreed they'd get the extras. I just can't take another load in my mouth. Fuck me instead. Please. Use my pussy. Use my ass. Fill me there until the score is done."

Griffin and Nolan bent her over the sideline barrier, heels digging in. The first thrust into her dripping pussy made her cry out in front of the cheering stands. Griffin pounded her until he came, hot cum flooding her, and Nolan pushed into the same slick heat and filled her too. When she was leaking down her thighs, Conrad pressed into her ass, slow until she told him harder, and Everett took her there after, each man filling her until every extra point was satisfied.

She hung there trembling and leaking, throat burning, belly visibly swollen, a thoroughly used mess.

The final whistle blew. The announcer called the massive charity total, and the crowd screamed.

Conrad laughed once, breathless. "Same rule next month, or are you going to make us earn a higher score?"